Misperceptions
by sherlockian4evr
Summary: John wakes up in hospital with no memory of how he got there, but everyone tells him he tried to kill himself. Well, almost everyone. Sherlock is confused and refusing to talk to John at all. None of it adds up to John, though. He's not even depressed, let alone suicidal, but he can't get anyone to believe him or investigate. Beta read by Sherlock1110.
1. Chapter 1

John still couldn't believe what Mycroft had told him. He stared at the government official from his hospital bed shaking his head violently, despite how it made his head ache. "No. I didn't try to kill myself, Mycroft. I don't care what the so called evidence says." He had no memory of doing such a thing, much less a reason to have done it.

The government official looked at his brother's boyfriend with the barest hint of a sad smile. "You were found in your room with an empty prescription bottle in your hand. The evidence is quite compelling. Surely you can see that? The number of pills pumped from your stomach combined with the suicide note in your own handwriting are rather difficult to dismiss." He couldn't fathom why the doctor would try to argue the point, it was actually quite pitiable.

"I want to see the note," John demanded. It simply couldn't be in his handwriting. "I didn't write it. Surely Sherlock..."

"My brother has confirmed it is your handwriting, John," Mycroft told him in a no nonsense tone. "We both know what that means, don't we?" His brother didn't make mistakes.

"But I didn't do it!" the doctor grabbed his pounding head. "I didn't. I'm not depressed. I'm not even frustrated with anything that's going on in my life. Life is good right now." He didn't understand how this could be happening to him. It didn't make sense. "I need to talk to Sherlock. Why isn't he here?" He felt a moment of hope. "He's investigating, isn't he? He can tell something's wrong. That it was a setup. Someone tried to kill me." That had to be it. The detective would find the truth. That's what he did. He could count on Sherlock.

"We both know that's nonsense, based on the evidence." Mycroft twirlled his umbrella, "Sherlock is rather... distraught. He doesn't understand how you could do this, try to commit suicide. He doesn't understand why you didn't talk to him. He's hurt and angry. I wouldn't expect to see him any time soon if I were you. It's going to take him some time to come to terms with what you have done."

"What I have done!" He barked a mirthless laugh, then let his head drop back to the pillow. This was just fucking fantastic. "What about Greg? I assume he was brought in on the case since he knows me?"

"Gregory is keeping this off the record; however, don't think we're going to treat this lightly. You will remain here until your bodily functions have stabilised and, whilst here, you will be assigned a psychologist from the home office. Your sessions with her will be off the official record. You will be allowed to return home only on her say so."

"I hate psychologists," the doctor complained. "You didn't like my last one as I recall."

"She wasn't an appropriate choice for you. This one will be." Mycroft stood and prepared to take his leave. "It would be best for everyone involved if you stop denying what you've done, John. It will be best for you." With that, the government official left John to his thoughts.

John rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He was so completely fucked. He hadn't tried to kill himself and no one, not even Sherlock believed him. The question was, what had really happened and who was out to get him?


	2. Chapter 2

John had been alone in his hospital room for quite some time. Though he hadn't been depressed before, his current situation was beginning to wear on him. When he realised that he was slipping into melancholy, he got angry. He got very angry. He got enraged. This was completely uncalled for. He hadn't tried to take his own life, someone had tried to kill him and no one, not even Sherlock Holmes, believed him. Well, he wasn't going to just sit here and wait for whoever it was to make a second attempt on his life. No, he was a soldier. He would take action to protect himself.

Moving quickly, John disconnected all of the wires that were monitoring him. Being a doctor, he knew how to silence all of the monitoring equipment and did so. Next, he removed the IV and dropped the cannula and line to the bed. The clothes he had been wearing when he had been brought in were folded neatly on a chair in the corner and he rushed to pull them on. John wished he had his SIG, but he would have to make do without it.

John moved quietly, but quickly towards the door and cracked it open to see if anyone was nearby to notice him leave. Hopefully He'd be able to slip by the nurses unnoticed.

"Doctor Watson," Anthea said coolly, "you seem to think you're going somewhere." She looked up at him from her chair by his door.

John rested his weight against the doorframe as he mentally went through the list of every curse word he knew. He closed the door and went to sit on the edge of the hospital bed. After a few minutes, he picked up a pillow and threw it at the hospital door. The nurse that was entering had to duck. Behind her the doctor that accompanied her caught the pillow in one hand.

"Mister Watson," the doctor chided, "your body hasn't recovered enough for you to leave the hospital. We're still monitoring your kidney and liver functions. Whilst they have improved, they're still not within normal range." His mask of business like concern didn't have any effect on John at all.

John's left hand had clenched into a fist. He didn't give a damn about anything the doctor had to say, but the sight of Anthea on her mobile told him he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. He was sure his actions were being reported to Mycroft as he sat there.

"Please, Mister Watson, change back into your hospital gown and let the nurse, Janet, take care of you. She'll hook up all the monitors and restart the IV. We need to keep it going," the doctor plead.

John looked passed him to Anthea who was still talking on the phone. "If you want me to cooperate," he said in a voice loud enough to carry to her, "you get Sherlock Holmes here. Nothing is going to happen until I get a chance to talk to him." He stared down the doctor and crossed his arms. Unless the doctor wanted to risk drugging him, there was nothing he could do about John's refusal to cooperate. He doubted the doctor would risk it if his kidney and liver functions were really still unacceptable. "Remind Mycroft just how stubborn I can be," he shouted at Anthea. "I can out stubborn his brother." And he would if he had to. No one could stop him.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg entered John's hospital room with some trepidation. He had been warned of the doctor's anger and senseless denial of his suicide attempt. He had also been warned that John had demanded quite vehemently that Sherlock come see him, something that had, as of yet, not happened, though it was in the works. "John," the DI said in greeting.

"What do you want?" John asked, his voice sounding bitter. "Are you here to talk some sense into me, because it won't work." He didn't want to talk to anyone that wasn't Sherlock, not even the DI.

"I can see that, mate," Greg said as he pulled up a chair and sat facing the doctor.

John shook his head. He could see in the DI's eyes that Greg believed he had tried to kill himself. "If you believe the crap that everyone is saying, you're not my mate. You're nothing more than a copper on an investigation." He knew he sounded bitter, but he couldn't help it. Did no one have any faith in him?

"You sound like Sherlock, you know that?" The DI crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in the chair. "Look, we're just worried about you." He paused a moment before continuing. "If you weren't trying to kill yourself, then explain how the meds got into your stomach. They didn't just materialise there."

The glare that was shot in Greg's direction was tempered by confusion. John hadn't thought of that. No wonder everyone was convinced. He'd had to have swallowed those tablets on his own. He thought back to the night before. He had gone out for a pint just to get away from Sherlock's latest experiment which had taken over most of the flat. He remembered talking to a few people, but he didn't remember coming home. Everything was a blur after that. It didn't make sense. "I don't know how they got there," was all he could offer the DI in reply. John felt completely defeated. Even he would have thought the worst. Sherlock was his only hope and he still hadn't come to see him.

Greg sighed at the doctor's denial. He didn't know what could have driven John to take such extreme measures, let alone deny it in the face of such strong evidence. Maybe Sherlock would be able to sort it, if he would calm down enough. "Look, I didn't come here to argue and I am here as your friend. Mycroft is bringing Sherlock here as we speak, but you should know he's... upset would be too mild a word. He's angry with you, furious, even. That's why he's stayed away."

The doctor stood, looking down at Greg in shock. "Sherlock is angry with me. That... that self righteous prat! After allthe things he has done! Shooting up God only knows what all for all those years, each time taking his life in his own hands. And the way he lives. You've seen it, Greg, risking his life for the thrill of the chase, for the game. And he's angry with me?!" If the monitors had been hooked up to him, they would have been sounding their alarms, he was so worked up.

"John-"

Sherlock was angry with him for something he hadn't even done. Where was the concern? Where was the support? Shouldn't his boyfriend be offering those instead of staying away in a snit? The doctor sat back his chair and dropped his face to his hands. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. Why was he fighting everyone anyway? They didn't believe him and wouldn't. He'd try to make Sherlock see the truth. If he couldn't make him, then he had to find a way out of here and find out who had tried to kill him and how.


	4. Chapter 4

John looked up as his hospital room door opened and Sherlock stumbled through. The detective had obviously been pushed into the room by his brother.

"Remember, rethink your attitude, brother mine. John needs you right now," Mycroft warned. He caught Greg's eye and jerked his head meaningfully towards the door.

The DI stood, feeling awkward. "I'll be going then. So you the two of you can talk. Yeah." He edged towards the door, then rushed out, glad to let the door close behind him and Mycroft.

Sherlock stood at the foot of John's bed with his hands shoved in the pockets of his Belstaff. "I thought you trusted me," he said in a bitter tone.

The doctor looked up at Sherlock. "I could say the same thing. No doubt you've been told what I've been saying, that I didn't try to kill myself. I can see you don't believe me."

"Well, I can see you believe it," the detective spat, "but the evidence doesn't lie." He produced a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket and thrust it towards John as he stepped within his reach. "Your goodbye note."

Reaching out, the doctor took it. He uncrumpled it and stared at it for a full minute, stunned. It looked like his handwriting, at least at first glance. Reading the letter, which didn't sound like something he would have written, thankyouverymuch, he noticed a few discrepancies here and there in how particular letters had been formed. He shook his head as he looked up at his boyfriend. "You see, but you do not observe," he said, throwing Sherlock's words back at him. "Look at this again. Look at the letters l, h and k. I don't make them like that. Think, Sherlock!'

The detective examined the letter, paying particular attention to the letters John had mentioned. "You were under a great deal of stress. It's only natural that your handwriting would reflect that."

John stood, swaying. He was angry, hurt and felt like hell. He took a step and his knees gave out. Sherlock caught him in his arms and eased him into bed. "You said you would cooperate if I came. I'm here."

"What about last night?" John asked. "I don't remember anything after the pub, not really. Isn't it possible that something happened there or on my way home and then..." He couldn't put together a realistic scenario for after that. "There were some people I talked to..." He shook his head as he tried to remember. "Can't you do something with that? Please."

Sherlock turned his back on him. "What would you have me do? You were suicidal and you didn't trust me to talk to me about it. Do you want to talk about it now?"

"No!" the doctor was so frustrated. "I want you to give me the benefit of the doubt. Believe in me. Believe that, if I was suicidal, I would talk to you before I did anything. Find out what really happened."

Sherlock turned partially towards John. "You're asking me to investigate."

"Yes, but the trust is what matters more. I can't stand the thought that you don't believe me." John used his left hand to push his hair back. He needed Sherlock to believe him if no one else did.

Finally facing John, the detective stared at his boyfriend long and hard. "Alright. I'll see what I can find out. After the nurses get your IV started again and get the monitors reconnected, you and I will talk about what you remember."

Feeling as though a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders, John agreed. "Thank you, Sherlock."


	5. Chapter 5

It was Mrs. Hudson who fussed over John when she came to visit. She sat by his bed and held his hand. "Oh, John dear, if you couldn't talk to Sherlock, you should have come to me. I'm old, dear. I've seen it all, done it all, far too much to be judgemental. You can tell me anything, you do know that, John? You don't have to keep it bottled up inside until something like this happens." She used her free hand to wipe a tear from her eye.

The doctor took a deep breath. "Mrs. Hudson, I did not try to kill myself." His words were spoken with barely contained rage. "Someone tried to kill me, but no one seems to be listening to me."

His landlady sat up straight. "Not even Sherlock?! Shame on him. If you say you didn't do it, then you didn't. He should know you don't lie." She patted a gaping John's hand. "I'll have a word with that young man. I'll..."

"You believe me?" the doctor asked, incredulous.

"Of course I do. Like I said, you don't lie. Sherlock's commented often enough that you're no good at it, anyway." Mrs. Hudson looked quite formidable in her anger. "Don't you fret, John, I'll set that boy straight."

Just having one person believe him, really believe him, bolstered John's spirits. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I don't know what I would do without you." She seemed like a lifeline to him at the moment.

* * *

Sherlock was still upset with John and didn't really believe him, but out in the corridor, he promptly called Mycroft and requested access too all CCTV footage from the night before. He needed everything from the pub to the door of 221.

If anyone else had asked him to do such a thing, he would have ignored them, but it had been John who had asked. No matter how angry he was with the man, he couldn't tell him no. The detective didn't expect anything to come of it, though.

Greg walked up with two cups of coffee and thrust one into Sherlock's hand. "Mrs. Hudson is inside, then?"

The detective made a noise in the affirmative as he sipped at the bitter coffee.

"Good," the DI said with a small nod. "He needs all the support he can get." The look he shot Sherlock was pointed.

"What?" the detective snapped.

"I get it. You're hurt and you're scared." Sherlock tried to interrupt, but Greg kept on talking. "That's no excuse to treat John like he's the enemy. You should be in there telling him you'll be by his side no matter what, not retreating into your cold 'I don't give a damn' attitude. That's the last thing he needs. You're his boyfriend. Act like it for God's sake!"

"I don't need a lecture from you on how to behave," Sherlock growled.

"You sure as bloody hell need it from someone. Not many people will talk to you like this, but I will. Get your head out of your arse. Be there for him. Support him. Don't make him feel worse." Greg shoved his hands in his pockets. "I need a cigarette. I'm going outside. Don't make me kick your arse when I come back in." With that, he turned and walked towards the lifts.

Sherlock's phone pinged, then rang. Seeing that it was Mycroft calling, he sighed and answered the phone. "Yes."

"Brother mine," the government official said grimly, "you'll want to look at the CCTV footage I just sent you. John didn't go home alone."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock's head snapped up and he looked back down the corridor to John's room. "What do you mean he wasn't alone?"

"Just what I said, brother mine," Mycroft said with a sigh. "He seemed to be being supported by two individuals as they made their way to a cab and then again from the cab into 221. That's the extent my surveillance covers. I don't have cameras inside the flat, per your request."

The detective swore as he rang off, then pulled up the grainy CCTV footage. The screen on his phone was far too small to make out details, but he could see what was clearly John's form being 'helped' from the pub and into a cab. He couldn't get a good look at the faces of the men who climbed into the cab with him, nor could he make them out when they reappeared to take the doctor into 221.

For a long moment, Sherlock just stood there, then he gave himself a mental kick in the arse. A strange feeling had crept over him, one he wasn't accustomed to feeling: shame. He had doubted John, John who had never shown anything but complete faith in him, even when it hadn't seemed justified. Finally, painfully, he put one foot in front of the other and made his way back towards the doctor's room. Standing with his hand on the door, Sherlock braced himself to do something he absolutely never did. Never. He had to go into that room and apologise. Swallowing hard, he pushed the door open and entered.

John looked up when the detective entered and sighed wearily. "What? Have you changed your mind already? Decided there's nothing to investigate?" He rolled away from Sherlock and onto his side, facing the far wall. Suddenly it just didn't seem worth fighting anymore. He was tired, so tired and no one believed him except Mrs. Hudson. "Just go away, Sherlock. I don't want to talk to you right now."

The detective walked around John's bed. When the doctor started to roll back to his other side, Sherlock stopped him by placing a hand on his shoulder. "John, wait..." He paused, trying to work up the courage to say what needed to be said. "Please, let me say this... I was wrong."

The doctor jerked away from Sherlock's touch. "Finally figured that out did you?" He was breathing hard, his earlier apathy having been exchanged for sudden, hot anger. "My word certainly wasn't good enough, so what evidence has turned up?" He pushed himself up to sitting and glared at the detective. "Nothing else would have changed your mind. God forbid you rely on sentiment or your gut instinct or your boyfriend's bloody word! It's all about cold hard facts with you."

"John, I..."

"You're supposed to believe in me, Sherlock! Like I've always believed in you." The monitors were sounding their alarms as John's heart rate and blood pressure spiked.

"Please, try to calm down," the detective said as he deftly silenced said alarms. "I'm trying to apologise, to tell you that you are right. About everything. I should have had faith in you. I'm not good at these things, emotions. I'm an idiot when it comes to them. I should have believed you. From now on, I'll always listen to whatever you have to say. I swear, I'll make this up to you." When John just glared at him, Sherlock bowed his head. "I'll find out what really happened." He turned and left the room, believing that he had ruined the one relationship that mattered most to him. After all, how could John ever trust him again, not after this.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock had sat silently in the cab for the entire ride back to Baker Street. It was a grey, rainy day, cold and bitter, and it suited his mood quite well. Every time he tried to think about John and what had happened logically, his hated emotions interfered, causing his thoughts to go off track and swirl into a dark morass of guilt.

The cab stopped just outside of 221 and the detective threw some cash in the cabbie's direction. He got out of the car and, shoulders stooped against the rain, he dashed up the steps and into the building. One glance at A told him Mrs. Hudson was out, a fact for which he was grateful. He wasn't in a frame of mind to speak to their landlady without sounding short, something he hated to do to her.

As Sherlock climbed the stairs, he forced himself to look at the situation from a place without emotions interfering. Logic was what was needed now. He looked for clues, any sign of what had happened just the night before, but they had been obscured by the passing of too many feet and the trolly the paramedics had used to carry John from the flat. There, on the wall just above the fifth step, was a skid mark from where the trolly had hit the wall. There was another near the thirteenth step. That was all he could see. Sherlock clenched his hands into fists and entered the living room. He gave it only a cursory once over before passing through the kitchen and into their bedroom. The bedroom where he had found John.

Once again, Sherlock's mental control slipped, giving way to sentiment. Before him, he could almost see the horrible tableau that had met his eyes when he walked into their room. He had been at Barts, taking advantage of the quiet nightime hours to perform a delicate experiment which had required more advanced equipment than he had at the flat and had thus been late in getting home. If he had left off his research earlier, might he have been home when John had been dragged into the flat and thus have prevented him from being fed a potentially deadly overdose? He should have been here, not at Barts. It was all his fault and to make things worse, he had blamed John, John who had needed his support no matter what, no matter if he had tried to kill himself as they had thought or if he had been the victim of attempted murder.

The detective sank to his knees by the bed and dropped his head to the mattress. Even with his eyes shut, he still saw John laying there, deathlike, the prescription drug bottle nestled artfully in his palm. Sherlock had thought he was dead. When he had felt for his pulse, it had been almost impossible to find. He couldn't remember anything between that and the paramedic's arrival, but he must have dialled 999. Everything after that was a blur right up until the moment the doctor had told him they had got to John in time. He wished he could delete everything after that. His behaviour towards his boyfriend had been appalling.

Slowly, he forced himself to raise his head. He didn't deserve this, taking time out for self pity and self loathing. He had a job to do. He owed it to John to find out who had tried to kill him and why they had done it. He took out his pocket magnifier and searched every inch of the room for clues. It was as he expected, in vain. Too many people had trampled through their bedroom the night before. He stood up and headed back to the living room. He needed to look at the CCTV footage Mycroft had sent him again. It was the only lead he had.


	8. Chapter 8

John had nodded as his physician updated him on the results of his latest labwork. His liver and kidney functions had both improved markedly. They still wanted to keep him a couple of days to monitor his progress, then they would let him go. It was obvious that the physician was reluctant about that prospect, but Mycroft had clearly interfered and John's case was no longer being treated as a suicide attempt.

John listened patiently to his physician, then he informed him that he would be leaving hospital immediately, just as soon as his discharge could be arranged. He would sign the papers stating that he was leaving against his physician's recommendation, but he would be leaving.

Two hours later, John was dressed and walked out of his hospital room. He hadn't made up his mind where he was going. The thought of returing to 221B and his infuriating boyfriend didn't exactly appeal to him at the moment. He'd need a few days to collect himself and let his anger settle down. Harry was out of the question. Just as he considered calling Greg, the man himself appeared in the hospital corridor.

"John, what are you doing?" The DI looked concerned. "You're not pulling a Sherlock." He didn't know why he bothered to ask, it was obvious that his friend was doing precisely that.

"And if I am?" the doctor challenged. He had no intention of letting anyone change his mind.

Greg sighed. "Well, I won't try to stop you. It wouldn't do any good anyway."

John didn't bother to hide his surprise. "Aren't you afraid I'll try to off myself," he said in a not very friendly tone.

The DI had the grace to look embarrassed. "As to that, I've talked to Mycroft. He told me about the CCTV footage. I don't know if you'll be able to forgive me for what I thought..."

"What footage?" the doctor asked sharply.

"Oh. You were caught on camera being taken from a pub by two individuals. The same two individuals were caught on camera taking you into your flat. I thought Sherlock told you." Greg sounded perplexed and wary.

"I didn't give him a chance," John said, looking anywhere but at the DI. "I'm a bit angry with him at the moment."

"Yeah." Greg shoved his hands in his pockets. "He was a bit of an arse about the whole thing. I told him off for it."

The doctor managed a weak smile. "Ta for that."

"Do you need a ride to Baker Street?" Greg asked. "You don't look great. No offence, mate."

"Actually, I was hoping I could stay with you. Just until my temper has cooled off. It won't help matters if I punch Sherlock right now." John closed his eyes, feeling incredibly tired. "If it's not too much trouble."

The DI grinned. "It's no trouble at all. My guest room can finally get some use. Do you think your landlady would mind packing you a bag for a few nights."

"Mrs. Hudson? She won't mind. She's rather put out with Sherlock herself. I'll give her a call on the way over." The doctor frowned. "That is, if you don't mind dropping by the flat on the way to your place."

"Not one bit," Greg reassured him. "Um, it's not going to bother you if Mycroft drops by is it?"

John gave him a genuine smile. "I'm kind of curious to see what he's like when he's not being the British Government or Sherlock's big brother. I can't wait."

The DI returned the smile. "He's someone remarkable, John. I promise you. You won't recognise him."

From the look on Greg's face, John believed it.


	9. Chapter 9

John sat on the sofa in Greg's flat. The DI had gone to get take away, using it as an excuse to give John some much needed space.

It felt strange to the doctor to be there rather than back at Baker Street, but he wasn't up to seeing Sherlock, not yet. John got up and walked around the living room, looking around, but not seeing anything. His memories of the night he had almost died were still fuzzy at best. Most of them were simply missing. He certainly didn't remember anyone taking him home. With a sigh of frustration, the doctor sat again. This was the most worthless he had felt since before meeting Sherlock.

The thing that unsettled John the most was the 'why' of the entire scenario. If someone had a grudge against him, why the elaborate scheme? Why not shoot him and be done with it? He shook his head. He didn't have any enemies to speak of. Well, perhaps he'd earned a few since meeting the detective, but most people they had helped put away barely gave him a thought, focusing their wrath on Sherlock. That thought made John take pause. Perhaps it had been an indirect attack on his flatmate. A lot of the criminals seemed to think that way: hurt John Watson, hurt Sherlock Holmes. He groaned. Of course that was the answer. A sharp knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

John stood and walked towards the door. Greg had mentioned that Mycroft might drop by. Despite what he had told the DI earlier, he wasn't looking forward to seeing Sherlock's brother at the moment. He opened the door. "Mycroft, I..."

The man standing in the hallway had a gun levelled at the doctor's face. A second man stepped forward as John lifted his hands up beside his head.

"You're tougher than you look, Doctor Watson," The man with the gun observed. "The dosage we forced into you should have killed you. That would have kept your friend nicely distracted, all that angry grieving. Since that didn't work, we're going to try something a bit different."

The second man quickly injected something into John's neck and the world went black.

* * *

"Answer your bloody phone," Lestrade muttered to himself. Having returned to find his flat empty, his first instinct had been to call Sherlock. Of course, the detective wasn't answering his phone. Greg rang off, then immediately called Mycroft. When his boyfriend answered, he launched directly into explanation. "John's gone. His phone, coat and shoes are all still here. Add to that the fact that the door to my flat was left ajar and it's clear he's been kidnapped."

"Was there any sign of forced entry?" Mycroft asked to the accompaniment of keystrokes.

"No, nothing." The frustration was clear in the DI's voice. "And your brother isn't answering his phone, as usual."

The government official sighed. "I have the CCTV footage pulled up on your flat."

"That was fast."

"I have a link to it for emergencies," Mycroft confessed as he scanned backwards in time. He didn't have to go back very far before he found what he was looking for: John being held at gunpoint and apparently drugged, then being carried away. The new CCTV camera outside Greg's flat had paid off. He told the DI what he had seen.

The Greg swore. "Damn."

"Indeed. I'll have my brother picked up and brought to your flat immediately.

"Alright." Greg ran a hand through his hair. "I'll be waiting."

* * *

Sherlock phone buzzed. Finally! The incessant calls had been annoying. Lestrade knew he preferred to text. He pulled out his phone and opened the message. It was a photo of an obviously drugged John, bound and helpless, in a small room. His blood ran cold, then the fire of rage hit. He threw his phone and it clattered to the floor.


	10. Chapter 10

When John woke in the small cell-like room, he felt like he had the world's worst hangover. He tried to use his hands to help him sit up to no avail, his wrists being bound quite effectively. He immediately came to the realisation that he had been kidnapped. Again. It took an enormous amount of effort getting into a sitting position as he was bound both hand and foot. The more the sedative his kidnappers had used on him burned itself out of his system, the more he became aware of aches and pains he hadn't had before. They must have roughed him up whilst he was unconscious.

For what seemed like hours, John waited, expecting his kidnappers to come into his prison and gloat, beat him some more, then take photos to send to Sherlock. That seemed to be how these things always progressed. He could only stay tense and alert for so long, however, before the tedium of the situation caused him to give in and slouch back against the wall. Maybe they had just left him here to die, they had already tried to kill him once, after all.

His bitterness with Sherlock made him think that perhaps the detective would assume he had just gone on holiday, but even as he thought it, John knew that was ridiculous. He let himself slide down the wall and lay on his side. Thinking about what had happened to him over the last few days, the doctor felt his anger and bitterness drain away. If he had walked in on Sherlock nearly dead and holding an empty medicine bottle he would have assumed the same thing, that his friend had tried to kill himself. The only thing he still blamed the detective for was the cold manner with which he had treated him. If their roles had been reversed, John would have tried to be a supportive presence by his side.

* * *

Mycroft entered 221B just in time to witness his brother's phone clatter to the floor. Without a word, he went over and picked it up. "The screen is cracked, but it seems to be in working order." He turned and offered it to Sherlock. "How exactly did it offend you, baby brother?"/

The detective glared at Mycroft, wanting to tell him to piss off, but knowing he might need his resources. "John. I received photos."

"Ah." Mycroft twirled his umbrella. "Which brings us to the reason I am here. John was kidnapped from Detective Inspector Lestrade's flat. I came to bring you to the site."

"For goodness sake, call him Gregory like you always do," he said as he rushed by his brother, already headed towards Mycroft's car out on the street. "And don't just stand there!"

In the car, Mycroft brought out a laptop and let Sherlock see the footage of the kidnapping.

"This is high quality for a CCTV camera and the angle..."

The government official blushed slightly. "Gregory deserves as much protection as you and John," he explained.

Sherlock hummed an acknowledgement. "It's the same two men that brought John home from the pub, but why kidnap him this time instead of just killing him?"

"Sentiment, little brother. You're too close to the problem to see it."

The detective glared at his brother. "I suppose you see it from your lofty remove," he said, scathingly. "Are your feelings for Lestrade just a show?"

"No," Mycroft said with a long suffering sigh, "but he's not the one being targeted, John is. These men are trying to distract you from something and they're doing quite a fine job of it."

"I don't care if they're trying to distract me from the assassination of the Queen, nothing is more important than getting John back." Sherlock's glare dared his brother to argue.

Mycroft didn't. "You concentrate on getting John back. Gregory and I will figure out what you are being distracted from and stop whatever it is from happening."

The detective nodded, then brought out his phone and looked at the photo the kidnappers had sent. He couldn't find John fast enough and when he did, he had so much to apologise for.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock walked over to the CCTV camera and stood beneath it, looking at Lestrade's door to confirm the angle matched that seen in the CCTV footage Mycroft had shared with him. His eyes roved over every inch of the pathway outside the DI's flat, looking for anything that might pass as a clue.

Greg watched the detective with an expression of concern. "How is he, Mycroft?"

"He's angry, naturally. However, I believe him to be as angry with himself as he is with the kidnappers." Mycroft let out an unguarded sigh. "I have advised him to concentrate on finding John. You and I shall endeavour to determine why my brother is being distracted."

To Lestrade's credit, he didn't ask any questions. "Let's get started, then," he said grimly. He grabbed his coat off its hook and shrugged it on. "Where do we look first?"

"I have my people working on it, looking for spikes in suspicious activity. We'll go to my office first and review what they've found." Mycroft walked over to his brother who was examining the two sets of footprints outside Greg's flat. "If Gregory and I learn anything helpful, we shall let you know. Please, keep us informed of developments and, Sherlock... don't do anything foolish. Call for backup if you locate John. Don't attempt a heroic rescue."

The detective looked up at his brother. "I won't do anything you wouldn't do for him," he said, gesturing towards Lestrade.

At that, the older Holmes smiled grimly and gave a nod. He understood what Sherlock was saying. He didn't like it, but he understood.

* * *

John struggled to sit up when he heard voices approaching from the other side of the door. He made it to sitting just as two men entered. He didn't recognise them, but assumed them to be his kidnappers. "Hello, assholes," he said cheerfully. Sherlock wasn't the only person who had a habit of saying the wrong thing at the most inappropriate of times.

The two men exchanged glances. They had expected a frightened man who would be easy to intimidate, not to be greeted with such words and a frankly chilling grin. The taller of the two spoke up, trying to sound intimidating. "Doctor Watson. You're going to record a message for your boyfriend. You're going to tell him to go home and be a good little boy. He's not to investigate anything, not even the disappearance of so much as a teddy bear for the next 11 days. If he cooperates, he'll get you back alive."

Shaking his head, John laughed. "Nope. Not gonna happen. I don't record messages for dickheads like you. Sorry, it's standard policy. I established it after my first kidnapping."

The second man walked further into the room and held a gun on the doctor. John did his best to ignore it. His entire plan was a shaky one at best: keep making the two men angry every time he saw them and hope it caused them to make a mistake. Of course, there was a down side, as he was reminded when the taller of the two men kicked him in the side. The first kick hurt like hell, but it was the second one that made John scream out at the cracking of his rib. Before he had recovered, the big man had hauled him to his feet with his left hand and proceeded to punch him in the face several times before dropping him to the floor.

The doctor glared at the two men, wishing his hands and feet were free so he could have fought back. He would have kicked them into next week. "I can't wait for Sherlock to find this place. You had both better pray you're not here when he does."

The larger man just grinned, then pulled out his mobile and snapped a photo. "We won't need you to record that message after all."


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock's phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket immediately, hoping against hope that it would be a message from John. It wasn't. Instead, it was a photo message. He opened it with a sense of dread at what he would see. His dread was well founded.

The photo showed John, cuffed hand and foot. He was slumped on the floor. From the way he was holding himself, he had at least one cracked rib. His face looked like it had been struck too many times to count, his right eye was bloody and swollen. There was still a defiant look in the doctor's eyes, though. That was good, he hadn't been broken; far from it, he had been enraged.

The detective's phone nearly went flying once again in his fury, but a detail in the room caught his eye. Could the kidnappers really be so stupid? They had taken a wide angle shot that showed a great amount of the room John was being held in. He recognised the extremely narrow windows at the top of the room, far too narrow for a body to fit through, but they were of a very distinctive design. There were only three warehouses with those particular style of windows. They had been built at the same time by the same construction company before it had gone out of business. Sherlock knew where to look.

* * *

The first warehouse was completely abandoned with no sign of either the kidnappers or John. Sherlock continued to the second warehouse, which looked far more promising. There were fresh tyre tracks in the gravel outside the warehouse which was also supposed to be abandoned. The car that had left the tracks was nowhere to be seen. Perfect.

The detective approached the door nearest the tyre tracks only to find it locked, however, the lock showed evidence of recent use and wasn't rusty. It was another promising sign. He pulled out his case of lockpicks and chose the appropriate one for the job. Within seconds, he had managed to unlock the door. He opened it as quietly as he could and entered the darkened building.

Off to the left, there was a door that opened onto a stairwell. Sherlock dismissed going up almost immediately. He headed down the stairs to the basement. He smiled grimly when he saw that debris had been disturbed on the stairs, confirming his choice of direction. As he approached the door at the bottom of the stairs, he paused, listening for the sound of anyone behind the door. Not hearing anything, he opened it and stepped through. The detective found himself standing in a medium sized room that showed signs of having been recently occupied. There were empty drink bottles, stubbed cigarette butts and an empty pizza box. Along the upper edge of the room were the signature windows he had noticed in the photograph of John. They appeared at ground level from outside.

Across the room was another door. Sherlock rushed over and tried it, only to find it locked. Hope got the better of him and he called out, "John!"

"Sherlock!" John called back, his voice muffled by the door between them.

"Hang on, John! I'll be right there." The detective fumbled with his lockpick set, finally selecting the one he needed. He took a calming breath and, hands steadier, soon had the door unlocked. He opened the door and rushed inside. "John. Oh, John. I'm so sorry. I was such an idiot." The whole time he spoke, he worked on the cuffs that bound the doctor's wrists. The moment he had the cuffs off of John, he paused to place a quick kiss on the doctor's lips. Sherlock reached into his waistband and drew out John's SIG and pressed it into his hands, "In case they come back," then he started working to unlock the shackles on John's ankles.

Outside, a car pulled up on the gravel.


	13. Chapter 13

Just as Sherlock freed John's ankles, they heard the sound of footsteps and voices in the far distance. The two men exchanged glances.

"Keep the gun out of sight until the last munute," the detective ordered quietly, "and don't let them see you're free until it's too late for them to react." He leapt to his feet and started towards the door.

"And what are you doing?" John whispered.

Sherlock merely winked at him, closed the door which then locked and stood so that he would be hidden by the door when it was opened.

Seeing what the detective had in mind John nodded. He moved his hands behind his back, gripping the gun tight and listened to the sound of his kidnappers growing near. He and Sherlock had surprise on their side and they were about to make good use of it.

The lock in the door tripped, then the door was pushed open. The smaller of the two kidnappers entered, a grim smile on his face. Stepping into the small room, he stopped a few short feet from John. "I want to say thank you. Your pouf of a boyfriend is searching for you. He's perfectly distracted, just like we planned." He raised his voice. "Joe, come on. Bring the phone. I want to send another photo."

The doctor told himself to wait just a bit longer before he acted. He tried to look as miserable as possible. The other man, Joe, needed to be right where Sherlock could take him down before John acted. Timing was critical. If he acted too soon, Joe would be alerted that something was wrong, too late and they would equally lose the element of surprise. Steady, Watson, he told himself as he fingered the trigger of his SIG.

When Joe joined them, stepping into the room just passed the open door, the doctor made his move. He pulled his SIG from behind his back and leveled it so it was aimed between the shorter man's eyes. Before either kidnapper could react, Sherlock stepped up behind Joe and wrapped his arm around his throat, hissing, "Don't move." The detective had made certain to grab the man such that they were well out of John's line of fire.

John didn't let his aim waiver as he got to his feet. "Sherlock?" he asked, his tone deadly.

"Coming." The detective had cuffed Joe and shoved him to his knees. He stepped up to the other kidnapper's side, pulling another set of handcuffs from his pocket and proceeded to cuff him as well. The whole time, John kept watch over the two men, ready to fire the gun at the slightest provocation.

When both men had been cuffed and shoved to their knees, John and Sherlock moved as one towards the door. They didn't need words to coordinate. The doctor kept the men covered until Sherlock had closed and locked the door. The moment he heard the lock click, John sagged, almost dropping his gun.

Sherlock rushed to support the doctor with an arm around the waist. "How badly are you hurt? Cracked rib, I'm sure, but what else?" His eyes roved over John's body, searching for injuries.

"Just what you see," John said, "and I'm exhausted. I need to get some rest." He sat down gratefully in the chair that Sherlock had guided him to. "God, I feel like shit. Call a cab. Take me home."

"Don't be an idiot. You're going to hospital." Sherlock dialled Lestrade. "Send an ambulance to my location, John has been hurt. And send a team to collect his kidnappers. They may be able to provide you information. I can't be bothered with them. I have to take care of John."


	14. Chapter 14

The conversation between Sherlock and John had been restricted to discussion of the doctor's injuries and the particulars of his kidnapping, both in the ambulance and at the hospital. Now that they were on the way home, however, Sherlock knew he would soon have to address what had happened early on in the case and how he had failed John in so many ways. He shifted in the back seat of the cab and turned to regard his boyfriend who had his head tilted back against the seat with his eyes closed.

The detective asked himself how he could have been such a fool as to believe John had tried to kill himself. There had been no warning signs. He hadn't complained of feeling trapped or having no reason to live. He hadn't been drinking more. Sherlock was the reckless one, not the doctor. And John certainly hadn't seemed depressed or more anxious than normal. Still, John's word hadn't been good enough. The detective had jumped to conclusions ahead of the facts.

The question was why.

The answer was sentiment. Sentiment and fear.

Sherlock had been afraid, no, terrified of losing John. If the doctor had died, he would have had no reason to continue. He had to face the fact that he had lashed out at John from that fear. More importantly, he had to admit it to the doctor and hope for his forgiveness.

The cab pulled up outside 221 and John jolted back to awareness, then climbed out of the cab. Sherlock followed him, tossing some cash at the cabbie. He then followed the doctor up to their flat where they both shed their coats.

"I'll make tea," Sherlock offered. He needed a few more moments to gather his thoughts before trying to talk to John. It didn't matter how long they had been together, he never found these sorts of conversations easy.

John made a sort of non-commital sound as he eased himself into his chair. "I'm still surprised you haven't run off to find out what the kidnappers are trying to keep you from investigating. I would have thought you'd want to find out before Mycroft does." He toed off his shoes and stretched out, hissing in pain when he put too much strain on his ribs.

"I don't care what's going on, John. I care about you. My brother and Lestrade will have to handle whatever plan is being enacted. I'm staying here to take care of you." He expected the doctor to say something else, but John remained quiet. Soon enough, Sherlock took his boyfriend a mug of tea, then sat across from him, holding his own mug. He looked at the doctor in silence, knowing he needed to speak, to apologise, to explain. "John..." the detective started, but faltered. He couldn't do this. John would never forgive him. True, he didn't feel any animosity coming from the doctor, but John was likely too tired to be angry with him at the moment.

John cracked open his eyes which had fallen shut. "Yeah?" He could sense some of Sherlock's trepidation. "What is it, Sherlock? Just say it. I'm too tired to play guessing games."

The detective nodded. "About... that night...when I found you. I was an idiot."

John let out a huff. "Yes, you were."

"I was an idiot," Sherlock repeated, "and I've figured out why. I was... afraid." There, he had said it aloud. "I've never been afraid before, John. Never. And I was terrified of losing you. It was easier to be angry with you than to admit that to myself." He looked down at his hands. "I should have trusted you, trusted your word. I know you would never lie to me. You're better than that." Sherlock held his breath, waiting to hear what John had to say and fearing it at the same time.


	15. Chapter 15

For a long moment, John didn't say anything and his expression gave nothing away, then he let out a long sigh and held out his hand towards Sherlock. "Come here."

Normally, the detective would respond by settling on John's lap, but that was out of the question. He would not risk aggravating the doctor's injuries. Instead, he crossed to him and knelt at his feet. There, he waited patiently for his boyfriend to speak.

"I certainly understand about being afraid," John said gently. He wrapped one of Sherlock's curls around his finger.

"No, you're the bravest man I know," Sherlock argued.

"Ha. I don't know about that. Still, being brave doesn't mean not being afraid. I'm afraid of losing you, too, you know. Some of the crazier things I've done have been because of that." The doctor sat forward, ignoring the aching creak in his ribs, and placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's head. "I can't say you didn't hurt me, because you did, but I can say I understand why you did it. Still, you have to trust me, Sherlock." He looked deep into his boyfriend's eyes and saw the genuine pained remorse there. "You have to take me at my word, and if I ever should... fall victim to depression, you have to promise you'll be there for me, not blame me. That's what partners do."

Sherlock nodded frantically, but not dislodging John's hands. "Yes, John. I swear it. I'll be there for you, no matter what and I'll trust you. I will. I will, I will, I will." He could feel tears flowing from his eyes, but he didn't care. After what he had put him through, John deserved to see him flayed open, deserved to see every bit of his emotions. "Please. I love you. Please believe me."

Pulling him near, the doctor shushed him. "Sh, sh. It's okay, now. I love you too and I'm not angry with you anymore. We're okay. We're going to be just fine. You're learning, that's what life is about, yeah?" John separated them enough that he could smile at his boyfriend. He wiped away Sherlock's tears, then he bent to kiss him, but was stopped by his aching ribs.

Sherlock reached out towards him, distressed by John's pain. "Relax, John. Lean back. Let me take care of you." He stood, bent down and placed a kiss to his boyfriend's temple. "Are you hungry, thirsty?" He needed to take care of John.

"I could use some tea, ta," the doctor said, amused at Sherlock's immediate shift in gears now that he had been forgiven. John knew people thought the detective was a cold, uncaring man, but he knew better. Sherlock would keep apologising for days through his actions until the detective felt he had made full amends. No amount of protesting on John's part could stop it either.

Before long, John was sitting and sipping tea with his feet propped up and a roaring fire in the fireplace. Sherlock fetched a blanket and covered the doctor with it, tucking the edges in around him. John smiled up at him. "You're going to spoil me, taking care of me like this."

"You deserve it, John. It's the least I can do." Sherlock sat in his own chair, his heart feeling lighter. John looked better, he had more colour in his cheeks and a smile on his face. The detective promised himself that he would spend the rest of his life keeping that smile in place. He hated that he had both hurt John emotionally and allowed him to be hurt physically. He had to do better in the future.

Sherlock watched as the heat and comfort lulled John to sleep. The doctor looked so very peaceful.

After several minutes, the detective's phone buzzed. He pulled it out and saw a text from Greg.

 **Mystery solved. Would-be kidnapping thwarted. GL**

 **How are you and John? GL**

Sherlock smiled over at the doctor. He was grateful to have this second chance to be who John needed and he would do his best to be just that.

 **We're fine. SH**


End file.
